


Decay Heat

by pinebluffvariant



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 04:32:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5403113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinebluffvariant/pseuds/pinebluffvariant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was her very own heirloom, an unexpected gift of storied beauty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decay Heat

The night hummed: air conditioning units struggling, frustrated dogs barking in the unbearable heat, cicadas singing their sirens’ song, resonating through every inch of space around her, every inch that was not her body.

Scully sprawled on her back in her dark bedroom, in bed, trying in vain to cool off. She lifted the sheet and fanned herself, up and down, until she finally caught a gust of cooler air. Cooler, but not cool. Humid, her thighs stuck together. Not entirely unpleasant, this, she thought and spread her legs, allowing forced air to soothe her saturated skin. She’d been thinking about him, the past half hour filled with delicious whimsy and things she’d never work up the nerve to ask for. That talented mouth-

Next to her, Mulder’s shoulder blades shifted, a sheen of sweat making his back look like a lacquered medallion, rare and precious. He was her very own heirloom, an unexpected gift of storied beauty, about whom tall tales would be told for generations to come. A pang of hurt passed through her - it’s impossible - and she swatted it away. 

In the humming and buzzing of the night, nothing mattered but the rhythm of the air on their skins, the faint glint of street lamp air on the whites of his eyes as he rolled over and looked at her, quiet as a ghost. They met there, in the space between their gazes, two moons orbiting something bigger, something massive and charged between them.

Steam rose off her skin in waves as he propped himself up on an elbow, grabbed the sheet from her with his free hand, and pulled it aside. His kiss was springy against her mouth and the heat from his chest, his neck, his armpits trapped her where she lay. 

She met his kiss again and again, light, playful. Too hot to touch anywhere else.

He smelled like a ripe persimmon, sweet and drunk, begging to be savored before it spoiled. Quick, quick, her mind supplied, and she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him deeper. He hissed, like water evaporating at first contact with hot oil.

Her tank top, an odd and ridiculous concession to modesty she’d made after finishing earlier, in this heat of all times, had ridden up during the night, exposing her belly. He pressed his own abdomen against hers for a moment, and rubbed gently, showing her exactly what he thought of the situation. Not too much. Wouldn’t want too much friction. You have to watch out for sparks in weather like this, or you’ll burn the whole forest down.

On his hands and knees, suddenly, he crawled down her body, a squinty grin on his face. Yes, she thought, yes, yes. The cicadas seemed to crescendo, and echo, echo, echo through the room. His soft hair tickled her chin in time with the teasing pecks on her neck, across her clavicles. His tongue darted out and licked a line down her sternum, gathering the salt of the night and the story of their frenzied fucking from earlier.

The heat of their bodies mingled and rose up to the ceiling. She found herself arching her back, offering up her breasts as a gift. Please touch me, they said with a gentle but desperate bob. His mouth opened wider, wetting her tight nipple through the white cotton of her shirt. His teeth teased and pulled at the sensitive spot. Her skin sparked when she felt his lips tighten. He smiled against her straining breast and rubbed his tongue, flat and flexed, on her ribbed cotton-clad nipple. 

A delicate hand snaked between her legs and spread them, rough palm against the sore spot on her thigh. He bit down, hard. A raw sob tore from her throat. The night exploded in a blinding pulse of white heat. 

One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, sang the cicadas, the conductors of the march of her heart.

The silence was frigid when Scully’s breathing slowed down. She was on her back, shivering. She’d kicked the covers off. She didn’t know if it was the cold that made the hair on her arms stand up, that made the ice spread through her veins like poison, or what happened a split second later: 

You’re alone, she remembered. It’s February. You buried him. Now cover up and close your eyes and try to forget. 

She rolled onto her side and laid there, curled up with thighs pressed against her belly, and she swore she could feel three heartbeats inside.


End file.
